


Le toucher

by grelleswife



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Grelle just needs a hug, Grelle rides a thestral and wears a plague doctor mask, Other, Sebastian has long hair, Touch-Starved, reapers kill by touching others with their bare hands in this AU, the demon is lonely, they are both much softer than in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 12:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20639222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/pseuds/grelleswife
Summary: In a world where reapers kill by touch alone and are denied meaningful contact with their own kind, Grelle Sutcliff is isolated and lonely until she crosses paths with a peculiar young demon.





	Le toucher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CosmicLion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicLion/gifts).

> le toucher (French): the sense of touch
> 
> The original idea for this fic was inspired by my friend cosmicli0n, who, during one of our conversations, speculated on an AU where reapers used touch rather than death scythes to collect souls. My little writer's brain latched onto the idea, and here you have it!
> 
> Yes, reapers also ride thestrals in this AU. It's not a huge plot point, but it makes for a nice aesthetic touch.
> 
> In this AU, Sebastian is a softer, more inexperienced demon, with his tenure with the Earl being his first long-term contract.

With a flourish of her cloak, Grelle dismounted her thestral, landing effortlessly on the cobblestones despite her high-heeled boots. By now, the routine was old hat; when you spent decades performing the single task for which reapers were useful, you quickly became accustomed to it. “Easy, boy,” she crooned to the skeletal equine when he nickered restlessly, patting the creature’s neck. She’d have to remember to reward him with that lump of sugar in her pocket once they returned to the reaper realm.

Grelle was quite the sight to behold. Black waistcoat, black breeches, black boots, black cloak, black gloves. Clothed in darkness from head to toe. A somber mask resembling a longed-beaked bird hid her face from view, only showing the barest hints of the pallid skin that lay beneath. She was a living study in black and white, but luxuriant red hair streaming in the light breeze revealed she was not entirely devoid of color. Technically, she should have had her hood up, but Grelle Sutcliff wasn’t exactly a stickler for the rules—that was William’s job. Besides, it wasn’t as though anyone was surveilling her, and Grelle derived a fierce satisfaction from such infractions, however minor. A lady had the right to let the wind blow through her hair once in a while.

Grelle entered the house, using her will to manipulate space and matter so that she could pass through like a phantom. This would have been a strain for some reapers, but Grelle possessed an uncommon degree of supernatural “horsepower,” which had earned her a reputation for being one of the dispatch’s most fearsome collectors. Not that it did her much good where it really mattered, she reflected bitterly. Despite years of effort and long nights spent poring through the reapers’ vast library, she was no closer to learning how she could fix her cursed body. Even the glamours she employed had their limits. She could maintain her notorious set of teeth and fiery tresses indefinitely, but _the other things_ were not so easily dealt with.

Grelle walked through the house, removing her notebook from a satchel at her side and thumbing through the pages impatiently.

“What’s the girl’s name again?” she muttered. “Oh, yes…Emilia Thorpe.” Only seven years old, bedridden with scarlet fever. In a few minutes’ time, she would die of it. Though swathed in the dismal aura that clung like fog to houses at which death called, the residence was clean and commodious. Judging from the quality of the furniture and the pair of servants meekly going about their business, the family probably belonged to the middle class. That distinction mattered not to reapers, however. The brat’s social status certainly wouldn’t save her. Noticing a sturdy wooden staircase nearby, Grelle thought she could detect the faintest energy emitted by a soul on the upper floor, its wan light flickering feebly like a spent-up candle. “Thereeee you are,” she declared as she ascended the stairs. Grelle took them two at a time; between suffering a recent spate of her “bad days” and being saddled with an even heavier work load than usual, she was in a rather ill humor and wished to get this business over with. Though she took pride in her work, this was one of the times when she wished that gods could abandon their posts as humans did.

With her reaper’s senses, she tracked the girl’s aura to a small room. Emilia herself lay supine and insensible beneath a quilt, her frail body wracked with fever. Blonde ringlets, damp with perspiration, clung to her forehead, and her breathing was labored. A mousy, middle-aged man and woman (her parents, presumably) sat nearby. Their faces were pale and drawn, and the woman sobbed quietly into her handkerchief. A doctor stood solemnly beside them, his visage grim. _You know when you’re beaten, old man_, Grelle thought snidely while she gazed upon the trite melodrama. She had witnessed hundreds of variations of this twopenny domestic tragedy, which held as little interest for her as a poorly-acted, third-rate play would for a human audience. The backdrop was dull, the thespians hardly worth mentioning. Besides, the ending was always the same. No mortal could escape the frigid touch of death, nor could Grelle escape from the soul-crushing role in which she had been trapped after her own demise.

She removed her black gloves, cramming them in her trousers pocket before holding her hand before her eyes. How odd that a hand dispensing death was the purest shade of white, delicate blue veins running beneath as if she had been carved from a column of marble. The flesh was a trifle too spare (Grelle had to deny herself; otherwise, they would be bulky and horrid, like a _man’s_), but the fingers were graceful and tapered, and her nails were painted an audacious red. True, those damn gloves hid her beautiful nails, but it was the _principle_ of the thing that mattered. She was a lady, regardless of whether or not anyone saw.

Walking over to the bedside, Grelle lightly touched her fingers to the girl’s forehead. “Off you go, now.” A wisp of air—her last breath—escaped the child’s mouth, and Emilia Thorpe breathed no more. Placing both hands above the girl’s chest, Grelle watched as a small orb of light coalesced between her palms. Good. The soul was coming willingly. Wrestling with a cantankerous spirit that clung to life was _such_ a chore. Grasping the soul, Grelle deposited it in a satchel slung over her shoulder. When she returned to the reaper’s world, she would pass on the souls she had collected to the higher powers for judgment.

Meanwhile, the dullards Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe finally seemed to realize that their child had cast off the mortal coil. There was the usual humdrum nonsense—shaking the girl, frantically consulting the doctor, who merely shook his grizzled head regretfully—to which Grelle had largely grown numb. With every year that passed, _feeling_ became more difficult for the goddess.

The woman collapsed into her husband’s arms. He held her tight and stroked her hair as the tears poured down his face. A jealous scowl distorted Grelle’s features. She turned on her heel and stormed out. Black resentment churned beneath her breastbone, clawed its way up her throat. What right did _they_ have to seek succor in another’s touch when she never could? Contact was a priceless gift, though Grelle hadn’t fully appreciated that until she became a reaper. Scant wonder that what humanity remained to her was fading away until only a gray emptiness remained. Death gods were isolated not only from the living but also from one another. They were strictly forbidden from speaking to or interacting with their brethren except to fulfill the necessities of their work. Amicable claps on the shoulder, warm embraces, and tender kisses on the cheek had been scarce during Grelle’s human life, but they were completely denied her now. All alone, she’d hug herself in the middle of the night or sew dozens of dolls in an effort to create the illusion of companionship. Grelle craved touch with a ferocity that made her bones ache. She was _starving_ for it.

Thankfully, her attention was diverted by a rose carefully placed in a vase on a tabletop. “Oh!” she gasped, an uncharacteristically tender smile gracing her lips. It was a magnificent rose, red as heart’s blood, unfurled in the splendor of its bloom. No other flower was endowed with the mystique of the red rose…Grelle reached out her hand with a child’s wonder and a woman’s impassioned hunger, running her finger along the petals.

Then she came to her senses and realized her mistake. The reaper guiltily snatched her hand away, balling it up and clutching it to her bosom as though the beauteous flower had scorched her pale, slender fingers. But it was too late. With alarming rapidity, the petals withered, lush scarlet replaced by a desiccated black. The blight of death sped downward, robbing the stem of its strength and the leaves of their verdure. In a few moments, the rose was stripped of its glory, a drooping husk of its former self.

Remorseful tears stung Grelle’s eyes. How could she have been so damn careless? No living thing was safe from a death god’s touch. She had known that for years. Grelle pressed her knuckles to her lips to quell her sorrow. “It’s not _fair_,” she whispered. Yes, she had drowned herself in a fit of despair, but did she really deserve to spend eternity in frozen isolation?

Dashing through the door and into the street, she leapt on her thestral’s back and kicked his sides, urging him into flight. Since she had completed her collections, she should return to the reaper realm with the souls she carried in tow. Instead, Grelle flicked at the reins, cajoling her steed into flying faster. She ripped off the hateful mask and stuffed it into her satchel. Ah, she relished the wind that caressed her skin! The goddess closed her eyes and spread her arms like wings, fingers splayed outward as if she sought to capture the entire expanse of sky that surrounded her. The ground whizzed by beneath her in a blur. Gradually, however, the thestral slowed and began a leisurely, spiral descent. Opening her eyes, Grelle observed that they were approaching what appeared to be a genteel manor. They must have passed the boundaries of London, then. The thestral landed silently, and Grelle took in the sight before her. A grand estate, to be sure, but curiously still. No sign of life within or without. Grelle dug her heels into the thestral’s sides, compelling him to stroll through the gardens. This time, she took pains to avoid touching the white roses that bloomed with abandon around her.

“Who might you be?” a mellifluous voice asked suddenly.

The thestral neighed furiously, rearing and flapping his wings wildly. With a shriek (not to mention a curse or two) Grelle fell from his back, crashing into someone behind her and sending them both toppling to the grass. Discombobulated, Grelle turned to grip the shoulders of the person she’d fallen on top of…

She hadn’t put her gloves back on. _Shit_. The man beneath her merely laughed, however, raising an eyebrow as he enquired, “Do you greet all strangers thus?”

“You’re…y-you’re still alive,” Grelle gasped, clutching at him in disbelief.

“I am indeed. Quite the astute observation.”

Ignoring the mordant remark, she choked out, “I can _touch _you!” before capturing the startled individual in a hug. He was comfortingly warm, reminding Grelle of the crackling hearthside of her childhood. She reached up to stroke his cheek and neck, soft as satin, and a head of glorious hair. He didn’t return the embrace, but neither did he pull away. Grelle savored the wordless pleasure of holding another and nestled her head happily against the man’s chest.

“I’ve never encountered a reaper in the human realm before, but my elders taught me that your kind are usually rather more uncivil than this.” Grelle’s higher mental faculties finally caught up with the rest of her. This person had instantly recognized her as a goddess of death, and her touch caused him no harm. If that was the case, then he surely couldn’t be human.

She jerked back and took a closer look at his face. It was exceptionally beautiful, almost too perfect, and paler than hers. His hair, which tumbled past his shoulders, was black and shiny as a crow’s feathers, with streaks of silver interspersed throughout. Then there were his eyes—a fiery red with slit, reptilian pupils.

Grelle swore under her breath. She had quite literally fallen into a demon’s lap! Her hand flew to the scythe that hung from the belt around her waist (the traditional weapon reapers carried with them to ward off the scions of hell). The demon showed no signs of aggression but rather regarded her with curiosity. “I’ll fight you if I must, but I’d prefer not to,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Don’t you want the souls I carry with me?” the stupefied Grelle asked. Demons were ravenous creatures, and she’d had more than a few nasty altercations with the blighters in the past.

The demon giggled. He actually _giggled_! The hell? “Not all of are that greedy. _I_ am a gourmet, and I feasted on a particularly fine soul not too long ago.” His eyes softened in an expression that almost seemed wistful.

Grelle was quickly coming to the conclusion that this demon was a strange bird. “Incidentally, what business do you have here?” the creature inquired, tilting his head. A fiend oughtn’t to be this devastatingly handsome. “Any souls you could gather are long since gone.” Something remarkably akin to sadness flitted across his face.

“Er…joyride,” Grelle answered after a moment’s pause.

“Hardly a fitting pursuit for a _grim _reaper,” he laughed teasingly.

“Says the demon who’s a picky eater!” she huffed. Grelle still hadn’t extricated herself from his lap. She was loathe to terminate this contact. Grelle marveled anew at the heat radiating off his skin; hellfire, perhaps? Impulsively, she slipped her hand into one of his. The demon looked down bemusedly.

“I haven’t been able to touch anyone in any way that mattered for _decades_, darling, and it’s driving me mad. I know we’re supposed to be enemies but…I just… _please don’t let go_—” Desperation constricted her chest.

The demon squeezed Grelle’s hand. “Stay awhile, then. We can walk through the gardens together. I am not averse to companionship, either.” Melancholy suffused his gaze.

_What on earth happened to him?_ Grelle wondered as they got to their feet. After taking a few moments to calm her thestral, who was still spooked by her diabolical acquaintance, Grelle grabbed onto the demon’s arm like a limpet. There was a quiet strength in his frame, and his hands were soft and gentle. Contact, _contact_. Skin on skin. It was like a resurrection.

The demon smiled down at her, showing his fangs. Compared to her own set of reaper’s teeth, they were downright precious. While they walked, he told her a bit about himself, explaining that he went by the name of “Sebastian Michaelis” and had served his former master disguised as a butler. “Those clothes of yours are hardly fitting for a butler,” Grelle protested. A glittering black cape, high-heeled boots, even eye makeup—this 'Sebastian' had a flair for the ostentatious.

“I spent my entire term of service clad in coattails. It was high time for a change. Though I…miss other aspects of the contract,” he replied, stumbling over the last sentence.

“What do you mean? That’s not what demons _do_.” Grelle shook her head, flummoxed. Contractees were just meals and playthings to demons, but the downcast Sebastian looked grief-stricken.

He came to a halt, sighing. “I’m several centuries old, but I’m still rather young by demonic standards, about the same as a mortal in their twenties, I suppose.”

Oho. Grelle had taken her life when she was 25. For some reason, it was good to know that she and Sebastian were around the same age, in a sense.

“Of course, I received all the usual teachings from the elders, but this was my first major contract. It’s sort of a rite of passage for us,” Sebastian continued. “I still don’t understand how it happened. Somehow, I…” His free hand clutched the front of his chest, black claws digging into the fabric.

“You got attached, didn’t you?” Grelle whispered in sudden comprehension.

The demon’s shoulders drooped. “I guess I did. I think what I felt for the young master was similar to what human parents feel for their young. He could be a brat at times, but that soul had endured such _pain_…I found myself wanting to help him, somehow. The other servants were idiots. Yet we went through so many adventures together working for the Queen’s Watchdog that a strange sort of bond formed between us. I remember one of them, Bardroy, saying that our group was like a ‘family.’”

“You still completed your contract, though,” Grelle finished for Sebastian when he fell silent, eyes closing.

“Yes,” he sighed. “I claimed the young master’s soul as required by the ancient laws. The other Phantomhive servants were scattered here and there, and I was left alone. I ought to have returned home by now. I can’t, though. _This_,” he gestured despairingly at the grounds, “became home, and I don’t know what I should do.” He looked utterly forsaken.

“Aren’t we a pair?” Grelle murmured, and she related her own struggles to him.

“Little wonder you looked for refuge in a demon’s arms,” he replied in kind tones that a fiend should have been incapable of.

“I’m glad I did, though,” she declared, hugging him again. Warmth…_touch_…This time, Sebastian awkwardly hugged her back, one hand reaching up wonderingly to caress her hair. “You know,” Grelle murmured into his chest, “If you wanted to accompany me on my rounds tomorrow, I wouldn’t say no. Maybe we could go to the theatre afterwards, or the opera.”

Sebastian drew her closer. “I’d like that,” he said hoarsely. “The manor has a fine ballroom. Perhaps we could dance there sometime.”

She grinned. “It’s settled, then.” Grelle cuddled him, and Sebastian held her until she was finally ready to let go.

She whistled for her thestral, who came trotting up, albeit pulling his ears back at the demon. “You behave,” she scolded her steed as she mounted him. “I think we’ll be seeing a biiit more of Sebas in the future, so you'd best be friends.” She winked at Sebastian, who seemed startled but not displeased at the pet name. Walking up to her, the demon took her hand.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” she smiled. Sebastian kissed the back of her hand, allowing his lips to linger far longer than etiquette dictated. His ebony hair brushed lightly against her skin. To finally reach out and touch another, and have them reach for you in turn! Grelle felt warmer than she had in decades.

_I’ll hold you close, Sebastian._


End file.
